[Untitled].

Sometimes I don’t know whether I have woken up smarter or the world has woken up stupider.

“They will be ready in ninety minutes,” the cashier said after I handed him film to be developed.

“Ok. I will see you in exactly an hour and a half!”

“No, ninety minutes.”

I spent almost two hours buying myself a beanie, a present for not being as obtuse as the man entrusted to turn negatives into…pictures.

 

After a morning of errands, I was eager at the prospect of spending an entire night in a house on my own. I spent the whole afternoon preparing for it.

“What the Hell are you doing?” AM was startled when she walked in on me mid-way through performing a Down-Dog pose while I waited for chicken to cook.

“I am stretching.”

“Why?”

“Because as soon as you leave, I am going to dance around the house to Michael Jackson music. Naked.”

“That is just what Michael would want,” she scoffed as she rescued my burning bird. “Someone who looks like an eight-year-old boy throwing themselves around a lounge room to Thriller.”

 

As I get older (metaphorically), I enjoy spending more and more time by myself. It stems from a combination of tiring of the stupid people (unless they are naked) and wanting to make myself smarter (so I don’t have to get naked).

 

The evening began with research books and coordinating my beanie to my tracksuit pants. With no attractive offer of entertainment for the night, I dedicated the moonlit hours to writing my thesis before I moon-walked around a couch.

“What are you doing?” A friend called me.

I was mid-way through coordinating my beanie to my birthday suit.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“I am about to light up. Do you want to come and smoke?”

I looked over to the reference books that I had spent the better part of five hours engrossed in, in a vain attempt to reignite the brain cells I have so foolishly killed over the past twenty-four years. I then looked down at my nakedness and up to my beanie. 

I declined and turned up Black Or White.

 

It was a smart decision, as after two hours of frolicking around the kitchen/hallway/lounge room to MJ, I felt as liberated and free as I had in weeks. I am a huge advocate for spending as much time as possible naked (Aside: Isn’t that obvious?), as I firmly believe that it makes you more comfortable with the reality that someone else is going to see you in That light. And, I figure, I have to accept that I have the body of an eight-year-old boy before anyone else does.

 

Any negative (having the body of an eight year old boy) can be turned into a positive.

“Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Boobs,” I hear my males friends chant for ninety percent of the time I spend with them. They are not looking at me. They are gawking at the hundreds of girls passing by who, are, ostensibly my competition.

“You wouldn’t understand,” they constantly remind me.

“I know,” I remind them. “I am not looked at in such a manner.”
I don’t think I have ever dated a Boob Guy. Or, if I have, he must have been severely disappointed. Or retarded. (Aside: …)

But when you live in a locale where girls forgo honesty to embrace the appearance of fake boobs as opposed to none, you are left with few options to win Them over. I look at my situation with a positive attitude: There is very little gratuitous sexual pretence about me. So my intellect can do the talking. And, if all else fails, there is always naked dancing with the knowledge that nothing jiggles.

“Yes, talking about the philosophy of existence will have men lining up at the door,” another friend scoffed.

“Just continue practicing your Down-Dog pose,” AM advised. 

 

By Sunday, my house was full of family members again and I had returned to wearing tracksuit pants, oversized t-shirts and the beanie.

“You look like a heroin addict,” RG so kindly informed me. I searched desperately for a visible syringe I didn’t know existed. “Can you please take off that ridiculous hat?”

“No.”

“You have been wearing it all weekend.”

“That isn’t true. I have only been wearing it since Friday.”

“…”

 

I returned to my reference books. While pretend boobs can be installed in just ninety minutes or an hour and a half, I was reminded that gaining intelligence takes longevity. Even for the most eager of us.